


our long goodbyes

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel dances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our long goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted by darlas_mom to write some Congel. _One very long night. Angel teaches his baby son to dance._ This is the result.

Lately sleep eludes him more often than not. The nights seem interminable, the thoughts in his mind becoming worlds of their own, mental planes where the minutes are stretched long and sluggish, the clock ticking by too slowly. He's filled with worries and fears, and he wonders, briefly, if his father had ever felt this way about him, if he'd ever cared as much about the boy he'd once been as he cares about Connor. 

Nothing could've prepared him for the way this feels. Being a father, having a son. A baby boy he needs to protect. 

Nights like this, he can't sit still. Nights like this, he'll talk to Connor, make up stories where they can both walk in the sunshine together, where Angel can swim and Connor is laughing as they play in the water, the blue of his eyes so clear it rivals the sky. He knows it's sentimental, nothing more than foolish fantasies, dreams that will never come true. But Angel's read that a parent's voice can be soothing, a source of comfort, and he'll talk until he can't anymore, until he's hoarse, until his words run out. Sometimes he'll sing instead, old Irish lullabies, half remembered words his mother used to sing to his sister when she was a baby. Words she probably sang to him, too, when he was too young to remember anything, and Angel always feels a pang of regret when he realizes Connor won't remember any of this. 

Tonight, though, he's teaching Connor how to dance. He knows he's not very good at it, but motion is supposed to be soothing too, and he knows how much Connor loves to be held. Connor's blanket is soft in his arms, still smelling brand new, and Angel smiles as his fingertips trace the tiny yellow ducklings printed on the fleece. 

"This is how you do it," Angel whispers, softly, so softly, for Connor's ears alone. "It doesn't matter how good a dancer you are, you just have to feel the music." And he sways, dances around the room, slow and careful, humming an aimless melody, making it up just like he does the stories. No words, just notes chasing one another, resounding through him in the absence of a heartbeat. 

Nights like tonight, words wouldn't be enough anyway. Nights like tonight, what Angel needs is to feel Connor close to him, warm and safe in his arms. The edges of the blanket swing gently as he turns this way and that, and looking down at it Angel has a momentary flash of memory: his blood, dripping red-bright onto Connor's old blanket. 

There's no blood on this one, though. It's a new blanket. It doesn't even smell like Connor, because Connor never got to use it. 

Angel stops humming. Stops dancing and walks to his bed. He sits down and folds the blanket on his lap, almost reverently, then tucks it under his pillow. 

"Goodnight, Connor," he murmurs. "I hope you're warm enough tonight."


End file.
